One with ridiculus accents
by floradelaney
Summary: Rambling Draco, stunned Harry and Pansy's ridiculus accent do not bode well for a certain Slytherin


**Disclaimer: In no way do I own Harry Potter. They are all property of J.K. Rowling.**

**Beta'd by Siriusly Smart.**

He was too attractive for his own good.

It was always like that, ever since he could remember. By no means would he complain... okay, he would, but that's not the point. What really bothered him was that his good looks brought him more trouble than play. You would think that his gorgeous body and angelic face landed him all the best guys, but you couldn't be further from the truth. He seemed like a magnet for all kind of losers and pitiful excuses that passed for men nowadays.

First there was Finnigan. No amount of brutal rejection was working on him. After first time he thought that maybe subtlety just didn't work on Gryffindors, but since he basically told the Irishman to "go the fuck away and die", it just didn't seem the case. The guy was plainly an idiot.

Next was Thomas something-or-the-other. He wasn't that bad looking and he was also quite rich but had an annoying habit of giving Draco those puppy dog eyes – like it could ever work, please—and the blond shook his head at the sheer ridiculousness of it. Really, some people had no shame. Of course when it came to shamelessness, nobody could beat Blaise in that department. He wouldn't even try and count the times he had to throw the Italian's naked ass from his bed. Zabini was unbelievable in his persistence; he seemed to think that once Draco had a good look at what he had to offer, he wouldn't be able to resist. How wrong he was.

All in all it wouldn't be so bad. Hell, it could even be flattering, if not for the one small detail. No matter how good he looked—how snug his jeans were, how well fitted robes he wore—never made any difference to the man whose eye he wanted to catch.

Harry Potter, The-Bloody-Prat-Who-Lived, chosen to be the bane of Draco's existence. Ever since defeating the Dark Lord, the previously shy and withdrawn boy now had an aura around him that just screamed confidence. It did help that he had filled in rather nicely over the summer, having grown a few inches. The toned muscles (thanks to vigorous Quidditch training) were a nice addition. He still was too lean to be called bulky but there was some serious strength in those limbs. And the young Mr. Malfoy always liked a little bit of meat on his boys since he himself was a little too willowy for his liking.

It was just unfair that—

"What ya' doin?" Pansy's shrill voice startled him out of his musings and he leapt off the couch with a little yelp—manly gasp, I mean, for Malfoys never _yelp_.

"Don't do that!" grumbled the blond. "What do you want? And drop that ridiculous accent, please."

"Whaaa?" She shrugged and glided closer to him. "Ya don' like it?"

"It's not just me. Nobody likes it. It's stupid." He rolled his eyes. "I wonder how the Weasel can stand you like that; he must be even thicker than I thought. Or he could be deaf from all the noise you make in bed."

Pansy growled and proceeded to hit him with a textbook. "Maybe if you finally stopped pining for Potter, you wouldn't be such an insufferable prat all the time!"

"Shut it," muttered Draco, blushing at the truth of the words. "Just because the Weasel is easy enough to fall for 'wanna shag?' doesn't mean that Potter is the same. He hates me, I hate him. Do you expect me to walk up to him and tell him that…"

Draco didn't notice Pansy grinning like a loon, or that he had stopped making sense. Gone was the famous Malfoy nonchalance. Cheeks flushed pink, arms flailing, Draco was a picture of pure madness.

"It doesn't mean that I like him, mind you!"

It was just now that he noticed he was no longer alone with Pansy. Close to dungeon's entryway stood Ron Weasley along with... _fuck_!

The Boy Who Lived was standing next to the redhead, his mouth open and his bright green eyes the size of saucers. He only made a gargling sound which could only be translated as a "What the fuck? How long as it been since I cleaned my ears, because I obviously must've heard wrong!"

For several moments, the humiliated Slytherin considered denying it all, saying that he hadn't meant anything, or at least thinking up a brilliant, believable story. His courage failed him and he stood up, ready to flee the scene.

Before he could take a step further, a heavy hand rested on his shoulder. "Don't," said Harry, his other hand sneaking around his waist, locking him in a vice-like grip. "Just, don't." Still holding Draco firmly in place, the raven-haired boy turned to his bewildered friend. "Ron, could you, er, take Pansy and leave us? We, uh, need to talk… _alone_," he added, blushing before burying his face into the Slytherin's soft blond hair.

"Are you sure?"

Pansy glared at Ron, pinching his arm before saying, "They're sure." She pushed him out of the door, mouthing, _Good luck_, before leaving.

They stood in silence, Harry still glued to Draco's back. Draco held his breath, disbelieving. Eventually, this would have to end. There was no way in hell that Harry's frantic grip on him could have meant what he wished for it to. It was probably so he wouldn't run off. Harry would beat him into the ground in any moment.

"Me, too," came a whisper, accompanied with a soft puff of air next to his ear. Harry's other arm joined the first one around Draco's waist.

"What?" Draco's voice came out as an embarrassing squeak.

A second later, it ceased to matter when Harry spun him around, planting his lips squarely onto the blond's. A loud moan sounded in the otherwise silent room. There was no telling which of them let it escape. Not that it mattered.

Not anymore.


End file.
